


A Carlos Carol

by sullenhearts



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:31:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenhearts/pseuds/sullenhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghost comes to visit a miserable Carl on Christmas Eve</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Carlos Carol

Title: A Carlos Carol  
Pairing: Peter/Carl, kind of  
Genre: AU  
Rating: All ages  
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't know Lucie and don't really think she's bulimic, but I needed it for the plot  
Trigger warnings: Eating disorders as mentioned above, take care of yourself

***

Carl’s back ached. He’d been on his feet since 5am, shifting boxes about in the back room, and then he’d been on a checkout all day, serving one customer after another in a blur of carrier bags and forced smiles and people spending far too much money on food that they were going to throw away on the 4th of January anyway. It was now almost 6pm, and Carl was practically asleep on the bus. The windscreen wipers were making a soothing ssshh noise, the heaters were on full pelt, the windows were dripping with condensation and Carl was so dazed that he missed his stop and only realised when the bus went round the corner that his flat sat on. 

He banged the bell and got off at the next stop. The distance to his flat was pretty much the same from this stop, but he’d meant to go into the Co-op near the previous stop and get food. Could he be bothered right now, especially as it was throwing it down? Just as he was considering whether to go past his flat and face the shop, a car rounded the corner too close to the kerb and splashed through a puddle, drenching Carl from his waist downwards.

Fuck’s _sake_. 

He stamped down the road crossly, splashing through puddles. Then he felt water on his foot – his boots were leaking. He knew they’d cracked around the toes, but hadn’t been aware they’d cracked all the way through. Maybe his mum would take pity on him in the new year and buy him a new pair. All he’d got left now was a pair of knock-off Converse. Fat lot of use they’d be with all this rain. 

The flat was freezing. Carl went over to the gas fire and tried to light it. It clicked, but nothing happened. He tried again, but all that happened was that the flat filled with the smell of gas. Carl hurried to the window to open it, which let the rain and cold air in and did nothing to make the smell dissipate. He wanted to light a cigarette but knowing his luck he’d blow up the place and die on Christmas Eve, alone. 

Instead, he threw himself into the chair and unlaced his boots, then kicked them into the corner of the room angrily. 

Alright, maybe he wasn’t taking this alone-at-Christmas thing very well. It had all started when Lucie had declared she wasn’t seeing either of her parents on Christmas Day.

No, well, to be honest, it had started years before, when Carl’s parents had divorced. Carl had been only seven, and couldn’t remember a time before his parents yelled angrily at each other and slammed doors, even, and maybe even especially, at Christmas. He had thought when they finally called it quits not long after his birthday that Christmas would be different, and hoped it would be enjoyable. But for the next decade, Lucie and Carl had been shunted around so many houses at Christmas that it was utterly miserable. They’d spend Christmas Eve with their grandma and her unmarried sisters, playing gin rummy and trying not to gag when Auntie Ena farted every time she stood up to refill her glass. They’d have Christmas morning with Chrissy, at first on the commune and then in her shared house. There’d be loads of kids and Carl would be tired after one of the little ones woke him at five am. He’d always try to be happy with whatever Chrissie had bought him, but it never quite hit the mark. This was proven by the fact that the a couple of years ago she’d finally bought him the leather jacket he’d been wanting for two years. Only it was red. Red leather. It wasn’t at all like something Joe Strummer would have worn. 

After lunch, Carl’s dad would come and pick them up and take them back to his house, where their granddad would be, and where there’d be more food and so many presents that it often felt like their dad was trying to buy their love instead of taking any actual interest in either Carl or Lucie as individuals. Boxing Day would be spent with Carl’s dad’s stepchildren, who Carl always tried to get on with but could never really make himself like.

Since they’d been adults, Lucie and Carl had spent morning with their mum in Somerset, had gobbled down a lunch and had then got into a car they’d borrowed from someone for the day to go to Basingstoke. It was exhausting. They were both sick of it but what could they do? Family was family. 

Then, six weeks ago in the middle of November, Lucie had announced cheerfully that she’d told their parents she wasn’t seeing either of them for Christmas, but would see them between Christmas and New Year. Carl had assumed that he’d have to choose between them, but instead his dad and his wife Liz had decided to go to Scotland to see one of her children, and his mum was going on holiday to Sweden with some friends. Lucie and Carl wouldn’t see either of them until the 27th. 

It had all been fine, still, because Carl had been seeing a girl called Ros since the summer, and she’d invited him to spend Christmas with her and her family. But then just last week she’d broken up with him, her tearstained face breaking his heart. “You don’t love me,” she’d said. “Not really.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was just kidding himself. He had liked her, though. And now he was spending Christmas by himself which was really fucking miserable. He didn’t even have food in. He still needed to go to the shop. 

He leaned back in the chair, though. Now he’d sat down his shoulders were aching and his feet were throbbing. He’d just rest his eyes for a few minutes. 

He woke with a start. No, no, he must be dreaming. Leaning against the wall was himself. He closed his eyes again, but when he opened them he was still there.

Except, it wasn’t himself. No, well, it was, it was a man recognisable as Carl Barât, but it wasn’t Carl right now. This one was older – there was grey in his hair, which was cut a bit shorter than Carl wore it. He was wearing a navy blue suit and a cream shirt – it looked like silk. His shoes were black and highly polished. In his buttonhole he wore a pink rose. He looked to be in his mid 40s – possibly twenty years older than Carl. 

“Evening, sunshine,” he said. “Hope I didn’t scare ya.”

“What are you?” Carl said. He had a headache. This had to be a very bad hallucination.

“I’m you, you divvy. Come on, I know I haven’t changed that much.”

“Yeah but you’re not real, are you?”

“I’m as real as you believe I am.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s not much.”

“Okay, fair enough.” The apparition shrugged, lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew smoke at the ceiling.

Carl really wasn’t sure that apparitions could light cigarettes. “Are you a ghost?”

“Kind of. I’m not dead – you’re not dead, not yet. I’m you in the future, you’re me in the past, whatever.”

“Time travel isn’t possible.”

“I didn’t say it was.” The ghost blew out another lungful of smoke, making circles with it. Fuck, Carl had been trying to do that for _ages_ and couldn’t get it right. 

Carl turned away from it, him, whatever it was. He was dreaming. That was all. He needed to wake up and go to the shop. He’d spend the paltry bonus he’d been given on some whiskey along with the food. That was a good idea.

“It isn’t a good idea,” the ghost said. “You’ll wake up tomorrow with a terrible headache.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” 

“Because I _was_ you. Bloody hell, none too clever, are ya?”

Carl rubbed his head again. Part of him wanted to go over and touch the man, to see if he was real or not. He got the feeling though that his hand would go right through and hit the magnolia wall behind him. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t. “What do you want?”

“You’re a bit miserable right now, aren’t you?”

Carl looked away. “S’pose.”

“Little ray of sunshine for sure. I know everything seems crap. You feel like Christmas was always rubbish, is rubbish, will always be rubbish.”

“Yeah, well. It is. Was. Is.”

“I’m here to change your mind.” The ghost made a gesture with his hands, like fucking jazz hands or something. 

Carl just looked at him. Was he this much of a loser in the future? Really? 

“You learn to lighten up,” the ghost said. “Which is just as well, because _Christ_. Are you up for this, or not?” 

Carl narrowed his eyes at the figure. The ghost would know that he could never turn down a challenge like that. He stood up. In the small room he was barely two feet from the figure. “Where are we going?”

“I’m basically Jacob Marley. I’m going to show you the past, the present, and the future.”

“How are you going to do that, exactly?”

The ghost reached out and took his hand. Its hand was cool, and a little bit clammy. It was absolutely real, though, his hand didn’t go through it at all, and Carl took a step back from it. This had to be a dream. Wasn’t it a dream?

“Magic,” the ghost said, and grinned, flashing its teeth.

Then there was a whoosh and a rush of cold air like a door had been opened, and they were outside a red brick house on a quiet street. It was light. There was slush in the garden and a lopsided snowman grinned from the middle of the lawn. Carl could remember making that snowman; there had been a deep snow on December the 22nd and he and Lucie had rushed out in the morning to throw snowballs at each other and their dad. It was the early 80s, he’d been four.

“Yeah,” said the ghost. “Mum says it was the first Christmas you were really aware of. Come on.”

They walked up the path together and across the windows. The ghost stood and beckoned Carl towards itself. 

Carl steadied himself and looked into the room. In one corner was the tree, a cotton wool Santa that Carl had made at school perched on the top of it. The ceiling was bedecked with gaudy tinsel decorations. Lucie – her hair short after she’d given herself a homemade haircut with some unattended scissors – was playing with some Sindy dolls in a Sindy-sized kitchen. Carl remembered that kitchen, she’d had it for years. It was blue and white, some kind of 50s Americana type of thing. 

Carl himself was sitting on the floor near her. His dad was sitting on the floor too, playing with something with Carl. Carl couldn’t remember what it was.

“Spinning top,” the ghost said, and took his hand again. 

Now they were inside. It was hot in here, and it smelt like Christmas dinner. 

“You couldn’t work it,” the ghost said, motioning to the tiny Carl on the red carpet. “It was one of those ones that you pushed the handle of repeatedly.”

Now Carl remembered. He could remember having it outside on the patio flags. His dad was pushing the handle and then letting it go, making the small Carl clap his hands delightedly when the toy spun off, its colours becoming a rainbow as it whirled. Each time Carl clapped his dad grinned, and eventually pulled Carl into his lap for a cuddle.

Chrissie sat on the chair behind him, looking younger than Carl could ever remember her being. She was smiling happily and she leaned over to find another present under the tree for Carl. She handed it to him and then turned her attention to Lucie, who needed help with a doll.

“Why are you showing me this?” Carl asked the ghost, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Because I know it feels like your family’s never been whole. Like for all your life, your parents argued and put you two in the middle. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Carl nodded. 

“I just wanted you to see that it’s not true. There was a time when everyone was happy.” 

“Yeah.” Carl took a deep breath. “Yeah I can see that.”

“Your parents will eventually get on and be friends.”

Carl looked at the ghost quickly. Was that supposed to be a joke? “Are you kidding?”

The ghost shook its head. “I promise. You meet the love of your life and they learn how to be around each other.”

“I meet the love of my life?”

The ghost grinned. “I was hoping that would pique your interest. I’ll take you there in a bit. First, though, you need to see your sister.”

“Why?”

“She’s part of Christmas present. You need to see how she is.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

The ghost sighed. “She split up with someone she’d been seeing.”

“A girl?”

It nodded. “They were planning on spending Christmas together, hence why she cancelled what you usually do. She’d got it all planned.”

“What happened?”

Again the ghost took his hand and again there was a whoosh and a rush of cold air, and then they were outside Lucie’s flat. Hovering. Outside her first floor window. Fifteen feet above the street.

This had to be a very, very lucid dream. 

Carl and the ghost were outside Lucie’s bedroom window. It was dim inside, with just Lucie’s bedside light switched on. She was curled in the bed and she was crying. 

“God,” Carl said. “She should have said.”

“But she won’t, because she thinks you don’t care enough.”

“Does she?”

“Yeah. You have to _try_ with her. Well, I recommend you do. You can be really close, I promise. You are, in the future.”

Carl nodded. “I’d want her to tell me.”

Inside the flat, the figure of Lucie got up from the bed. She was wearing a faded New York Dolls t-shirt but nothing else. She was still crying. She went into the bathroom – the light came on in the hallway beyond the bedroom, and Carl knew that was the bathroom – and Carl waited for her to come back. 

She was gone a really long time. Carl moved his feet, which were bare except for his socks. Even though they were hovering it was like there was an invisible platform beneath them, as if they were on scaffolding. 

“What’s she –”

“Yeah,” the ghost said. “Been ages, hasn’t she?”

“Yeah. Is she just crying in there or something?”

“Carl. I mean this in the nicest possible way, yeah, but you’re not always the most observant of people.”

Carl prickled. “No, well, okay. What’ve I missed?”

“She’s bulimic.”

“She _what_?” Carl looked at the ghost, his mouth open. “No.”

“No, I know. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? But she is. It’s been going on a while now.”

“Fuck. What can I do?”

“You can talk to her. Open up to her about yourself. She’ll soon open up about herself too.”

“Okay. Is she… Is she okay in the future?”

“Incredibly, yeah. She meets someone too, she’s really happy.”

“Good. _Good_.”

“When you open up with her, you’ll get her to talk to Mum about it.”

“Will I?”

“Eventually, yeah. She’s okay. I promise.”

Carl’s head was banging. Had he really missed that? His sister had always seemed alright. Cheerful, relentlessly so. Not like his depressed self. Fuck, he needed to see her. “Can I see her? Properly, I mean?”

“Not now. You can phone her, though, as soon as we’re finished.”

“Okay.” Carl nodded. He could do that. As soon as he woke up or got out of this or whatever it was. 

The ghost waited a few moments. Carl was grateful, because he could gather himself a little more. Lucie came back into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. She was still crying.

Carl wanted to go through the window and hug her. 

_Fuck_.

“Come on,” the ghost said gently eventually. “The next bit is hard too, but you might as well see who you fall in love with. That way, when you meet him, you’ll be ready.”

Carl started to nod, but then heard the ‘him’. “Wait, _him_?”

“Yeah, it was a surprise to me, too,” the ghost said. 

“But I’m not gay,” Carl said quickly. 

“No,” the ghost agreed. “You’ve always been a bit queer, though.”

Carl recoiled from the word. He could remember it being flung at him by bullies at school shortly before they hit him, and it had been scrawled over one of his exercise books when he was sixteen. 

“Oh, sunshine,” the ghost said sympathetically. “I forgot how much you – we – hated that word.”

“Yeah,” Carl said. He felt himself falling. He was falling. He hit the pavement on his arse. “Ow, fuck.”

“Sorry,” the ghost said. It sat down next to him and put its cold clammy arm around him.

Carl let it. It made him shiver but it was a bit of comfort at least. “I fall in love with a man?”

“Yeah,” the ghost said. “You’ve always had crushes on boys, yeah? If you’re honest about it.”

Carl nodded slowly. “But I’ve never _been_ with one.”

“No, well –”

“You can’t count Tony Wainwright,” Carl said. 

“Oh, you can.” The ghost grinned. “And you will, you mark my words.”

“Will I?” Everything was so confusing. Carl leaned on his knees. The ghost still had its arm around him. Its right arm. Carl looked at its left hand. On the third finger was a silver ring that looked very much like a wedding band. “Do I marry this man?” he asked, surprised. He wasn’t into marriage at all. Wait, the ghost was wearing what looked very much like a wedding suit. Even the buttonhole flower. “Is that what you’re doing? Getting married?”

“What, this?” The ghost motioned to his suit. “We already did that.”

“Yeah?”

It tapped the ring. “Must be eight years ago now. He’ll keep asking, and you, you’re not into marriage so you keep saying no.”

“Right.”

“But then they make it legal – same sex marriage, I mean – and he asks you again and you think, well, fuck it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Is it good?”

“It’s amazing.” The ghost smiled. “You thought you were close before, but being married really cemented it.”

“Wow.” Carl breathed in deeply. He was going to get married. To a _man_. “So why the posh suit now?”

“Scrub up alright, don’t we?” the ghost said, proudly brushing his lapels. “It’s Astile’s wedding. Gorgeous Christmas wedding, big mansion, gorgeous suits and the prettiest bride you’ll ever see.”

“Who’s Astile?”

“Ah,” the ghost said knowingly. “He’s Peter’s son.”

“And Peter’s my…”

“Husband, yeah. Ready to see him?”

“Yes,” Carl said, and there was the whoosh and the rush of cold air and soon they were outside a Victorian villa somewhere in South London.

“Does he live here?” Carl asked. “Not far from me, is it?”

“Not Peter himself, no. His kid, though. Come and look.” The ghost motioned to the window. 

Inside were four figures and a cosy Christmas scene – decorations on the mantelpiece, a tree in the window, and a SANTA STOP HERE sign on the chimney breast. A woman sat curled up in a chair, a glass of wine in her hand. She was laughing.

“’S Lisa,” the ghost said. “Astile’s mum. She’s fantastic. This is her house. Peter’s staying for the holidays.”

“She’s stunning.”

She was, too. Carl almost didn’t want to look away from her. On the sofa a girl was reading. She was about twelve or so and had long dark hair like her mum. 

“Molly,” the ghost said. “She’s not Peter’s but she may as well be. Yours, too. Her dad’s not in the picture.”

“Wow,” Carl said. He got a stepdaughter as well as a stepson? It was just too much. He’d have a family, all of his own. 

On the floor, a small child played with his dad. Carl almost didn’t want to look at them, because seeing the man that he would fall for seemed like spying on him. 

“He’s your soulmate,” the ghost said. “Yeah, yeah, you don’t believe in them, either.”

“Well, I _don’t_ ,” Carl said. “Lots of people I could fall in love with.”

The ghost nodded. “True. But you _haven’t_.”

“Can we go closer?” He wanted to see Peter close up. 

The ghost took his hand again and suddenly they were inside. Carl could feel the heat of the fire in the grate. Peter and Astile were sitting on a pale, fluffy rug that Peter kept running his fingers through. Astile was sitting between his knees and turning the pages of a book, reading carefully to his dad. 

“He’s seven,” the ghost breathed. “Cute, isn’t he?”

“Gorgeous,” Carl said. Now they were up closer he could see that Astile looked like both his parents – a perfect blend of them. He was wearing pyjamas with reindeer on and from the way that Peter pressed his nose into Astile’s hair, Carl guessed he was clean from the bath. 

He realised with a jolt that he’d seen Peter before. This wasn’t a stranger. 

“Mmm,” the ghost said. “Weird, eh?”

“Yeah,” Carl said. “I saw him play an open mic night a couple of months ago. Ros and I went, he was pretty good. I bought his tape.”

“He’s a musician in the future, too.”

“Wow.” Carl wanted to reach out and touch his hair, see what it was like to kiss his lips, start to learn the contours of his body. He was pretty – big brown eyes in a gentle, expressive face. His hair was all over the place and there was a patch of grey behind his right ear.  
What would life be like with this boy?

“I can show you,” the ghost said. “Our last stop is the future.” It reached for Carl’s hand again.

“No,” Carl said, pulling away. “Can’t I have something to look forward to? Something I can be surprised by?”

The ghost nodded. “Course. Of course.” There was the whoosh and the cold air again, one last time, and then they were back in Carl’s flat. “You end up happy. You buy a boat.”

“I do?”

“You and Peter. You have it on the river not far from here, close enough for Astile to walk over when he’s older.”

“I like boats. I could live on one.”

“Peter’s very glad that you do.” The ghost turned and clicked the fire on. It lit first time. “You might want to sit next to this for a bit. You’ve had a bit of a shock.”

“Have I?”

“When I’ve gone, you’ll see.” The ghost touched his hair gently. “Phone your sister.”

“I will,” Carl said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Life’s not that bad, you know.”

“No. No, I see that.” Carl could feel his body starting to shake and he did feel cold. 

The ghost leaned down and kissed his cheek, and then with a rush of cold air again, it disappeared. 

Carl woke with a start. 

It had been a dream, hadn’t it? A ghost of his future self hadn’t just visited him and shown him parts of his life. That was ridiculous; it couldn’t happen.

But the fire _was_ lit, and when Carl stood up to get the phone, there was mud on his bum from where he’d hit the pavement. 

He dialled Lucie’s number, shaking his head. There was no answer, not the first time and not any of the next six times he dialled. 

On the seventh try, a shaky voice said, “What?”

“Lucie,” Carl said, trying his hardest to sound sympathetic. “What’s up?”

“Oh, it’s you.” She coughed slightly. “Nothing, you?” She was trying to sound chipper but her voice was thick with tears. 

“I’m alright. Had a shit day at work, you know.”

“Yeah, was it busy?”

“Very, yeah.” Carl picked at a hole in the knee of his jeans. This was the type of conversation they usually had – superficial, skating over the basics, nothing shown of each of their emotions. It was bullshit. It needed to stop. The ghost said they were close. Carl loved his sister more than anyone else in the world, he had to get her to open up. “Look, you know, I was just thinking.”

“Mmm?”

“Remember that Christmas that it snowed and we made a snowman with Dad?”

She laughed softly. “Was that the year I got the Sindy kitchen?”

“That’s the one.”

“I hated those fucking dolls. Everyone else had Barbie, all blonde hair and blue eyes and plastic tits, and I had those mopey looking weirdos instead.”

Carl laughed. “At least by then Mum had relented on dolls at all.”

“True, too bloody true. I think that was the last happy year, you know?”

“Yeah,” Carl said. “I know.”

There was a silence. 

“It’s shit being here by myself,” Carl said. “I know you had other plans and stuff, but…”

“They fell through,” Lucie said. “I’m by myself too.”

“What happened?”

She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time. I’ve got all night, in fact. We could even stay up and see if we can catch Santa in the act.”

She laughed again. “Why don’t you come over?”

“I will. Have you got any food or drink in?”

“Not really, no. I wasn’t expecting to be here.”

“I’ll pop to the shop. I was going to do that anyway.” 

“Okay,” Lucie said. “See you soon.”

Carl hung up the phone and pulled his jacket on. It was the red leather one, and yeah, maybe it wasn’t something that Joe Strummer would have worn, but it was something Carl Barât would wear, proudly. His mum had bought it for him, after all.

He wound a scarf round his neck and picked up his wallet and keys. He turned off the fire and went into the bedroom to grab a few bits and pieces for overnight. He looked around the room again, and caught sight of the tape that he’d bought from Peter at the gig. He picked it up and tucked it into his back pocket. 

Outside it was still raining. Strange, had it been raining when he’d been all over London with the ghost, and had he just not noticed? He wasn’t sure. The whole thing felt so surreal. Carl tugged the hood of his hoodie up and walked along to the shop, which was really more of a small supermarket than a corner shop. 

It was warmer in there, and the speakers overhead were blasting out Shakin’ Stevens. Carl picked up a basket and walked down the first aisle, trying to decide what he and Lucie should eat. He picked up a few things, like bread and cheese and some ham. He was just rounding the corner when a small child in reindeer pyjamas collided with him, its head hitting his stomach.

“Sorry!” the child said, springing away from him.

“Astile,” Carl breathed, getting a good look at him.

Astile frowned at him and took a step back. This time he collided with his dad, who had followed him. 

“Careful, Steely,” Peter said. He was wearing a felt trilby hat and black overcoat. “Don’t walk into people.”

“This man knows my name,” Astile said suspiciously.

 _Shit_ , Carl thought. Now he’d look like a right nutter. He had to think fast. “We’ve met,” he said to Peter quickly. “I came to an open mic night you played and you mentioned your son.”

“Ah.” Peter broke out into a grin. “Mm, this is him.” He ruffled Astile’s hair affectionately. “Which gig was it?”

“Oh, a couple of months back at the Travellers’ Inn.”

“Oh, yeah.” Peter’s eyes weren’t moving from Carl’s. “You bought my tape.”

“I did,” Carl said. “It’s great.” Okay, that bit was a fib, because he hadn’t actually listened to it. But he’d liked what he’d heard at the gig, and he was definitely going to listen to it now. 

“Thank you,” Peter said. “Okay, Steely. Where are the mince pies going to be?” He rolled his eyes slightly at Carl. “We realised _just_ before bedtime that we didn’t have any to leave out for Father Christmas, didn’t we? Hence the last minute dash to the shop.”

Carl laughed. “Poor Santa, he’d be ever so upset.”

“Not as upset as you might think,” Peter said. “Neither he nor anyone else in the elves’ factory likes the damn things.” His eyes twinkled. 

“How awful,” Carl said. “Maybe Santa prefers a wee dram instead?”

“Definitely,” Peter said. “Reckon I should buy some of that, too?”

Carl nodded. “Absolutely for sure.”

Peter laughed and together they made their way over to the alcohol section. Peter picked up a bottle of whiskey and took the packet of mince pies from Astile. “All set?” he said.

“Yes,” Astile said. “We already have the carrot.”

“Oh yes, the carrot for Rudolph,” Peter said. He smiled at Carl. “Well, thank you.”

“Any time,” Carl said. 

Peter started to walk towards the tills, hustling Astile in front of him. Carl had to do something now, or Peter would walk out of his life, and short of finding Lisa’s house and skulking around outside it, Carl wasn’t sure how they’d ever meet again. 

“Hey,” Carl called after him. “Maybe if Santa needs a hand finishing that bottle, he could phone me…?”

Peter turned, laughing. “Santa likes company with his whiskey, does he?”

“I’ve heard he does.”

“You got a pen?” Peter asked the cashier, who was looking at them, bemused. She tore off a piece of till roll and gave it to him with a pen. Peter very carefully wrote down his number.

Carl did the same, and then gave the pen back to the cashier.

“Thank you,” Peter said, taking the piece of paper. He folded it into his wallet. “Boxing Day?”

“Family stuff,” Carl said. “The day after?”

“Deal,” Peter said, grinning. He took his change from the cashier and bagged up his things. “Come on, Steely. Let’s go and make sure Santa stops for you.”

Carl watched them leave the shop and then put his basket down on the till, ready to buy his stuff.

“Friend of yours?” the woman asked.

“He will be,” Carl said. “He will be.”

_Fin_


End file.
